The Widow's Watcher

by Eliza Maxwell

  “Dad, try to be civil, if you can manage it,” Owen said as he put his hat back on. “As for you, Jenna Shaw, it was nice to meet you.”

  And with that he was gone. Once the door shut behind him, a split second of surreal silence followed. Jenna and Lars stared at each other. She fought against a dizzying sense of how quickly life had shown her illusions for what they were. Family. Love. Future. Control. Even her own death.

  Jenna’s grip tightened on the box in her arms.

  She had nothing left to lose. And she was unendurably tired.

  “Fine,” Lars spat out. “Down the hallway, last door on the left. Bathroom’s on the right.”

  “You could say thank you, Mom,” Cassie whispered, but Jenna couldn’t manage it. Not without choking on the words.

  “And don’t be expecting a continental breakfast, missy. I want you gone tomorrow,” Lars threw over his shoulder as he stomped toward the faded recliner and flickering television screen.

  “Can’t come fast enough.”

  “I heard that.”

  “You were meant to.” She made her way down the dim hallway to find the sleep that could no longer be denied.

  7

  The moments upon waking, just before full consciousness, when her mind betrayed her, were almost wholly to blame for Jenna’s reluctance to sleep.

  She’d yet to find a path to bring her back that didn’t pull her through the minefield of belief that her family was alive and well.

  Every day. Every time.

  She was forced to face the loss, accept the brutal truth crashing like waves around her, then somehow find the strength to pull her unwilling body from the bed and make her way through another empty day.

  This day would be no different.

  But this time, the room that came into focus was different, and the sounds of life coming from down the hallway gave Jenna a reason to swing her legs out of the bed.

  Lars Jorgensen. Today she had a new goal. To put as much distance between herself and Lars Jorgensen as she could.

  The previous day flickered across her memory. A swell of discomfort began low in her belly and traveled upward to flush her cheeks.

  She’d never behaved toward anyone the way she’d behaved to Lars Jorgensen. That wasn’t who she was.

  At least, it wasn’t who she used to be. This new Jenna was as much a stranger to her as the old man was.

  She’d fallen onto the bed the night before wearing the same clothes she’d worn for the previous few days. They were wrinkled and beginning to smell, she realized with a whiff of herself.

  She dug through her messenger bag and found an elastic hair band, a brush, and a nearly empty packet of spearmint gum.

  That would have to do.

  Her gaze was drawn to the box she’d set upon the bedside table the night before. Uncomfortable leaving it lying about, she glanced around the room.

  After an internal debate, Jenna decided to place the box in the bottom drawer of the dresser that sat beneath a window on the far wall. She was relieved to find the drawer empty, not sure how she’d feel about having to shove aside someone else’s socks or underwear to make room for her family’s ashes.

  She placed the box inside and shut the drawer with careful deliberation.

  Girding herself for a confrontation, Jenna walked down the hallway, following the scent of coffee and the sound of water running in the sink.

  She heard humming, and the sight that greeted her was an ample bottom bent over a dishwasher rack. It clearly didn’t belong to Lars Jorgensen.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the bottom.

  There was no reply.

  Jenna took a few steps farther into the room, but the bottom was busy keeping the beat.

  She tilted her head downward and said louder, “Um, excuse me?”

  The woman attached to the other end gave a start and raised her head, eyes wide. She placed one hand on her chest while the other reached to remove a set of headphones.

  “Good gracious alive, girl!” the woman said. “What in the world are you doing?” She leaned heavily against the counter at her back and tried to catch her breath.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The woman, probably in her mid- to late sixties, looked her up and down. Jenna was aware how she must appear, with her slept-in clothes and bags under her eyes.

  “If you’re looking for the soup kitchen, it’s in town, hon,” the woman said, confirming Jenna’s suspicions and bringing a flush to her cheeks.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m waiting on my car. It wouldn’t start.”

  The older woman tilted her head. “Your car is at the garage?”

  Jenna nodded. “I was stranded out here. I spent the night.”

  The woman’s brows shot up.

  “Lars let you spend the night. Here?”

  “In a manner of speaking. His son . . .” Jenna trailed off when the woman nodded in comprehension.

  “Ah. That makes more sense. Owen’s a good boy. What’s your name, hon?”

  “Jenna.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Jenna? I’m Diane.” The woman closed the dishwasher and turned it on. The hum and swish it made were familiar, and oddly comforting.

  “Can I get you anything for breakfast? Coffee?” Diane asked, friendlier now that she knew Jenna hadn’t wandered in off the street in search of a free meal.

  “Coffee, please.” Jenna glanced around. “Is Mr. Jorgensen here?”

  Diane shook her head.

  “Never sticks around on my cleaning day, which is fine and dandy with me.”

  She set a steaming mug in front of Jenna.

  “Are you . . . Mrs. Jorgensen, then?”

  “Me?” Diane asked with a laugh. “Married to that mule of a man? I hardly think so. My last name is Downey. I’m the housekeeper.”

  The older woman refilled her own cup and took a seat across from Jenna.

  “What brings you out this way?”

  Jenna pushed her chair back, suddenly uncomfortable with the cozy scene. She’d forgotten how to do normal.

  “I should call and check on my van.”

  Diane noticed Jenna’s abrupt shift, and gave her an assessing look.

  “Sure, hon. Phone’s right over there.” She gestured to a pea-green rotary phone that had probably been hanging on the wall since the house was built.

  Jenna stood and picked up the receiver, then realized she didn’t know the number.

  “There’s a list taped there on the wall,” Diane said, watching her.

  Jenna glanced over and saw a curling yellowed piece of notebook paper with faded cursive handwriting that listed Lars Jorgensen’s important numbers. Owen was at the top of the list.

  “Thank you,” Jenna mumbled, turning back to the phone and dialing the number.

  “Jorgensen’s Garage.”

  “This is Jenna Shaw. I’m checking on my van. It was brought in yesterday evening.”

  “Hey there, Ms. Shaw.” She recognized the voice as Owen’s. “How are you this morning? Dad treating you all right?”

  “He’s not here. I wondered if you’d had a chance to get the van running.”

  An echo of machine tools whirred in the background.

  “Honestly, I haven’t had time to look yet, but I should be able to tell you shortly. Diane’s there today, isn’t she? Dad’ll be over at the church. Why don’t you catch a ride with her when she’s done, and I’ll let you know how it’s looking.”

  Jenna glanced at Diane, who was wiping the countertop with a soapy rag and making no attempt to hide the fact that she was listening.

  “Yeah, okay,” Jenna said. It wasn’t like she had any choice. “I’ll ask her. Thank you.”

  “You got it, Jenna. Just have her drop you by the garage.”

  When she hung up the phone, Jenna took a deep breath and turned to the housekeeper, forcing herself again to ask a favor of a stranger.

  8

  “Going t
o be a hot one today.” The woman chuckled at her own joke as she drove.

  There was no snow falling that morning, and the sun was out, but it might as well have been a child’s crayon drawing taped to the sky for all the good it did. Jenna pulled Owen’s heavy coat tighter.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” Diane asked, an attempt to fill the awkward silence.

  “Where is ‘here’ anyway?” Jenna said, sidestepping the question. She’d never been good at small talk.

  Diane studied her.

  “Raven, Minnesota,” she said finally.

  Jenna nodded.

  The only difference it made was the direction she’d take when she drove out of there. The frozen north had lost whatever appeal it might have once had. West, she thought. Southwest, maybe, in search of someplace where the sun still had a stake in things.

  She’d find somewhere new, another beautiful place where Lars Jorgensen couldn’t pull her back from what she needed to do.

  “I’ve never understood your propensity for grand gestures,” Cass said inside her head.

  Jenna had been alone with only Cass’s voice for company for long enough that she barely stopped herself from responding aloud.

  “What’s the point?” Cassie continued.

  Jenna shifted in her seat and stared at the reflective expanse of white rolling by outside the window.

  “You don’t have to overcompensate in everything you do, Mom. We know you love us. You don’t need you to kill yourself in some theatrical middle finger to the universe.”

  Jenna squeezed her eyes shut.

  She was aware her daughter wasn’t actually speaking to her. Jenna wasn’t crazy. Cass’s voice was nothing more than a coping mechanism her brain had manufactured to deal with her grief.

  Knowing the words came from someplace inside herself didn’t make hearing them any easier. Her mind was made up, and nothing—not even her subconscious speaking in her dead daughter’s voice—would sway her.

  “Have you worked for Mr. Jorgensen long?” Jenna asked Diane, determined to mute the nagging in her head.

  “Longer than I care to say.” Diane gave a rueful twist of her lips.

  Jenna studied the woman’s expression, wondering distractedly what Lars Jorgensen had done to earn the housekeeper’s disdain.

  “So is there a Mrs. Jorgensen?” Jenna asked.

  An innocuous question, but Diane’s expression tightened. The remnants of the old Jenna must have still been in there somewhere, because her senses began to vibrate, ever so faintly, even before the housekeeper stumbled out a response.

  “It’s . . . well, it’s not my place to . . . He doesn’t really talk about . . .” Diane glanced at Jenna uncomfortably.

  She needn’t have worried. Whatever unease the question had raised, Jenna no longer cared about the answer. Her attention had snagged on a snapshot affixed to the visor of Diane’s car.

  She didn’t mean to stare but couldn’t seem to look away. Diane noticed her preoccupation and reached to hand the picture to Jenna.

  “My grandson, Thomas. Tommy, his mom calls him.” Her pride was unmistakable. As was her relief at the change in subject.

  The photo was a close-up of a baby with chubby cheeks. He was chewing on a fabric toy the exact color of his big, round eyes.

  Her own children had eyes that blue when they were born.

  Jenna’s throat was tight as she ran a thumb along the boy’s cherubic face.

  She handed the photo back with such speed it nearly slipped from her fingers.

  “He’s beautiful,” she forced out.

  “Do you have kids?” Diane asked, smiling as she tucked the photo back into place.

  Jenna had never considered how often strangers asked that question until she no longer had an answer.

  Did she have kids? Yes, yes! her mind screamed. Three unique, amazing kids, each with their own strengths and quirks and temperaments. Her kids, her tribe. Her life.

  “No,” she whispered. “No kids.”

  Jenna turned back to the white landscape. She didn’t blink. She wondered how long she’d have to stare at the bright, sparkling snow to go blind.

  9

  “Days?” Jenna asked incredulously. “Plural? As in, more than one?”

  Owen had the good grace to look apologetic.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Shaw. The part has to be ordered, I’m afraid, for this make and model van. I don’t have it in stock.”

  “That’s not going to work.” Jenna ran her hands over her face. “I can’t stay here for days.”

  She did a slow turn, looking outward for an answer, only to circle back to Owen’s sympathetic face.

  “Is there someplace in town I could rent a car?”

  “Closest place is in Saint Peter,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “And how far is Saint Peter?”

  “’Bout fifty miles.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, told herself to breathe.

  “Listen, why don’t you go across the street to the café and take a load off? Get a cup of coffee, a sandwich or something. I’m kind of backed up here now, but as soon as I get a chance, I’ll get on the phone and see if I can track down that part. Maybe find a supplier a little closer.”

  Jenna glanced around. Three people in line behind her were waiting to speak with Owen. There were cars parked around the edges of the building and a pair of legs in blue work pants dangling from beneath one of the cars in the three bays. The clank of a falling tool echoed, followed by a muffled curse.

  Jenna sighed. “Okay. Thank you, Owen.”

  It wasn’t his fault. It was no one’s fault except her own. That didn’t make it any easier to accept.

  She began to shrug out of his coat, but he shook his head.

  “You keep it for now. I know where to find you if I need it.”

  Her shoulders sank as she put it back on. She supposed he did.

  Jenna glanced up and down the street as she crossed over to the Raven Café. The town wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis, but there were a few cars passing, the drivers of which gave her openly curious stares.

  The town was small. Startlingly so.

  It made her feel like a fish in a bowl.

  Along with Jorgensen’s Garage, she saw a Laundromat, the café, what appeared to be a general store, and a secondhand shop. At opposite ends of the street, on opposing sides, were the spires of two different churches, placed like bookends.

  She’d grown up in a town eerily similar. There would be a bar on one of those side streets. Someplace for the locals to knock a few back. On one of the others, a school. A tiny one-room post office. A tinier public library, if they were lucky.

  A bell rang above the door of the restaurant as she entered. Jenna wasn’t imagining the lull in the conversations of the breakfast crowd.

  Strangers would be a rarity here. Maybe not so much in summer, when those cabins came out of hibernation at the lake, but with winter’s grip firmly in place, Raven, Minnesota, was members only.

  Jenna chose an empty booth next to the window and tried to ignore the glances thrown her way. The volume picked up again as people went back to business as usual.

  A waitress brought Jenna a plastic-covered menu.

  “Just coffee, please.” She handed the menu back without looking at it.

  “You sure? How about a slice of pie to go with that?”

  Jenna had her mouth open to say no, thanks, when she noticed a familiar green truck turn into the garage across the street.

  “Ma’am?” the waitress asked.

  “Hmm?” Jenna said, distracted by the sight of Lars Jorgensen climbing out of the ancient automobile. He slammed the door behind him before he walked into his son’s garage like he owned the place.

  “Pie?” the waitress prodded.

  “What?” Jenna said, shaking her head. “Fine, sure.”

  She wasn’t hungry, but it seemed to matter to the other woman more than it should.

&nbs
p; “What kind would you like? We have—”

  Jenna waved a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t care,” she said, biting back the urge to scream. The woman flinched. Immediately appalled at her own rudeness, Jenna managed to add, “Whatever you suggest. I trust you,” along with a weak smile.

  The waitress retreated behind the counter, no doubt chalking her up as a lousy tipper.

  By the time the waitress made her way back with the much-discussed slice of pie and a cup she filled at the table with steaming coffee, Lars had exited the garage, looking constipated as he stomped through the parking lot. She wondered if he always looked that way. As he threw open the door of his drab green truck, she thought probably so.

  “Thank you,” Jenna mumbled to the waitress without looking at her.

  “No,” she whispered when Lars stopped, then looked in the direction of the café.

  “No, no, no,” she chanted as he caught sight of her in the window.

  Their eyes met, and he slammed the truck door closed without stepping into it and headed her way.

  Jenna straightened her shoulders and gave all her attention to the coffee waiting in front of her.

  Hoping he would ignore her, she stirred a spoonful of sugar into the black liquid as the bell above the door jingled ominously at her back. She fumbled with one of the tiny prepackaged cups of cream the waitress had brought.

  A shadow loomed over her as she managed to open the thing, only to have it slip from her grasp and spill across the Formica tabletop.

  “What are you going to do now, eh, missy?” he boomed, paying no heed to the captured interest of her fellow diners.

  Jenna narrowed her eyes at her unwelcome visitor.

  “I’m thinking I’ll convince you to let me spend another night at your place, then sneak into your room and smother you with a pillow. Put you out of your misery.”

  Lars’s eyebrows shot up and he shuffled back a step.

  After a pause that Jenna took an infantile satisfaction in, his mouth fell open, and she braced herself for whatever scathing commentary the man felt he’d earned the right to toss her way.